


Feral Bubbles

by Leticheecopae



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubbles (Homestuck), Insanity, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23744275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leticheecopae/pseuds/Leticheecopae
Summary: The bubbles stretch on forever, sanity can not.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Feral Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> Found this sitting in a file, finished, but never posted. I thought I should go ahead and share.

The dream bubbles are not for the weak of mind. Horuss has been here for who knows how long, walking between worlds, seeing all the variations, and left wondering if he is from the original timeline, or possibly just another offshoot. That’s something he never tries to dwell on too long. Thinking that he may not be the protagonist to his own life (or afterlife) has been one of the more common ways of causing him to circle the hole of madness, dipping his toes into it before wrench himself out. 

Moving forward is the only way to beat back such thoughts. Despite how strange it can be walking into a bubble where some have similar memories, or where others know him in name or species, each bubble is beautiful in its own way. There have been some with giant towers; the skies choked with rainbows of color that made his brain quiet and open as he watched. In one world he invented and created more items than he had ever done in his life, and only forced himself to move on when he felt as if his think-pan might melt.

Others have been overgrown and twisted, nothing more than splattered afterthoughts stitched together with ever melting glue and a small semblance of sanity.

This bubble is very much like that— tall spires with crazed, winged creatures that follow high above. He had been sure they would attack the moment he came through, but they had stayed well away: watching, following, and darting back into the sky whenever he came close to a crumbling staircase that disappeared into the ever dark, churning water of the sea. He’s almost positive that the ocean is not a part of whatever these spires are, but it is a melancholy accent that reminds him of the sea dweller palaces and homes back on Beforus.

A few of the structures even hold remnants of what looks like troll architecture, stitched into the stone and gilded spires. Horuss makes ‘camp’ in a lower level of one of these structures, the touches of home melding into the little space that he shifts into his workshop. 

“There,” he says as he looks around at the space. He has a few projects to work on, and the winged creatures have given him new ideas to try. Horuss goes towards one of the benches, mind already buzzing as he mentally goes over how the joists in their wings had worked. It wouldn’t be difficult to replicate them but to get the same finesse would be a challenge. Still, it’s something to occupy his time again and keep his mind busy.

“Copper?” he wonders as he pulls up a graph onto the digital table. “No, too prone to bending. Maybe I’ll clop together—” he pauses, his hand stretched over the digital drafting table, going for the stylus tucked into the side. Horuss doesn’t dare to move, his ears straining to hear the sound from before. For a moment, he thinks his mind may have been playing tricks on him before it comes again, a slick slide of something slithering off to the side. Many have chided him for wearing his goggles even when he isn’t working, but they are a handy eyepiece. Not only because the lenses allow him to see clearly without cracking like normal glasses, but also because no one can easily see where he is looking.

He looks off to the side, toward the sound, without having to turn his head and sees a slight shape dart behind one of the large stone structures that have since splintered into decay. 

“Where did I put that pen?” he asks out loud, louder than he needs, but all he can hope is that whoever has entered his room will see it as him talking to himself. Plenty of bubble dwellers do, after all.

“Over here?” He walks to a desk that allows him to see the shape’s hiding space better without straining his eyes. He opens a drawer, bending some to make it look as if he is really searching. Horuss watches the shape move with a swiftness he is not expecting, but at this distance, he can brace for their attack.

The spear shoots past his skull, glancing off the skin of his cheek as he turns and grabs them. One of his hands grips their throat, the other grabs the arm closest to him — the body of the other slams down onto the desk, almost weightless thanks to Horuss’ strength. The spear falls to the floor, and the creature’s free hand claws at Horuss’ arm.

For a moment, he thinks it must be another strange denizen of the world, though wingless. The hair is wild, the skin pale, and the teeth that gnash at him are as sharp as the claws that try and cut through the sleeves of his shirt.

The horns, however, are what give it away to be a troll. And oh how familiar those horns are.

“Cronus?” Horuss gasps, the hand on the troll’s throat lessening, allowing them to pull in high, wheezing gasps. Beneath his fingers, gills flare and fight. 

“Cronus, it’s me, Horuss.” 

The white eyes, though pupilless, hold no recognition. Even without color, he’s been in the bubbles long enough to tell the emotions in the blank sclera, and there is nothing but rage in these; madness. 

The sea dweller tosses his head, hair flying, and a patch of purple catches Horuss’ eye. It moves with the strands, a damp hunk of hair that disappears down into the scalp above a smooth forehead.

“Not Cronus,” he murmurs. He’s seen that shock of color before, though usually it was teased upward above a face that sneered at him with repugnancy, not rage. Cronus’ dancestor was also usually done up in either his godtier clothing or more flamboyant attire. This one, though, is in nothing but scraps. He is bare-chested, with the afterthought of what once may have been shorts on his thin hips, and a few glints of gold on his fist. The rings have long since lost their gems.

“Eridan?”

The feral form below him pauses, a flicker of recognition in the white. It is nothing but a glimmer, an ember, but it is there, trapped behind the smoke of insanity.

“Eridan, you don’t know me,” Horuss continues, “but I’ve met you before. Or, well, one of you.”

Eridan’s free hand digs into his wrist, the nails pricking through the thick fabric, making a few rivulets of blue run out from beneath the fabric and over Eridan’s throat, though Horuss pays it little mind. He can barely feel the pricks, though the slight itch of the cut on his cheek is already starting to settle in.

“Do you understand me?”

He receives a hiss in response, a possible syllable, but nothing recognizable. 

“Do you remember how to talk?” Horuss asks the figure beneath him.

Another hiss, though it sounds vaguely of the word ‘yes’. He doesn’t push it, though. There is a chance this Eridan won’t be able to form full words anymore. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened to someone.

“If I let you go, will you attack me again?”

Eridan’s eyes trace over him, the hand on his wrist pulses between tightening and releasing.

“I can assure you; you won’t whinney— I mean win.” He gives him a small smile, trying to keep it warm though it feels a tad cold even to him, hard to be reassuring with his hand around the other’s throat. “I do not want to hurt you.”

The snarl fades a little at that. The claws in Horuss’ arm loosen, and the heaving breaths of the frightened troll below him lessen. 

“Good. I’m going to let go now, alright.” 

Eridan stares at him in response, though he does not attempt to grab at him again.

Horuss lets go slowly, his fingers uncurling from Eridan’s neck and wrist though he continues to keep them hovering over him just in case. Eridan stays lying on the desk, eyes never leaving Horuss’ face.

“There, not so ha—” The foot to his chest takes him more by surprise than anything, shoving him away from the desk as Eridan shoots back, his damp body sliding over the desk’s surface. He flips over the side with fluid ease before scuttling away, teeth displayed in a triumphant grin. It disappears quickly as he seems to realize that the move has done almost nothing to Horuss.

“Really?” Horuss sighs. 

Eridan gnashes his teeth at him, prowling around him in a sidestep as he heads towards a gap in the floor. Horuss can see a significant amount of water around it; most likely how Eridan got into the room in the first place.

“Eridan,” he tries, but the word sends the other troll sprinting. Horuss has to admit; he’s quite impressed how easily Eridan dives into the small gap before disappearing with only a minimal splash.

“Poor foal,” he murmurs as he stares at the hole. “His mind really went out to pasture.” With a sigh, he moves to disperse his bits inside the bubble; see if he can’t find a higher area, or possibly just move on. He almost trips as his foot catches on something. Bracing himself with his desk, and adding a small dent to the metal in the process, Horuss looks down to find the spear from before on the ground. It is crude, extremely crude, though it is also clear that it was created with care and love based on how little rust is on it; only a few flecks in spaces that he doubts even his claws could get into. The head is a sharp, dark stone; hand made and deadly. The pole is mildly bent in several places, most likely from being used to bludgeon or guard, giving it an odd form and, Horuss can only guess, horrible accuracy. 

Horuss picks it up, turning it over in his hands as his brain whirls. 

“Heat and straighten, reinforce it with some iron, seal it, set the head,” he mutters. 

He glances at the hole then to the spear. There had been recognition in those mad eyes; maybe he can help the little embers grow and burn back to some semblance of sanity.

“Couldn’t hurt,” he murmurs as he moves toward his bellows. Just a few changes, a single shot to see if he can help, and then he’ll leave. It may be a long shot, but who knows, maybe it will be worth it. It would be nice to talk to someone other than himself for a while, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on twitter or CuriousCat!  
> [NSFW Twitter](https://twitter.com/leticheecopae)  
> [SFW Twitter](https://twitter.com/FluffyLeti)  
> [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/leticheecopae)


End file.
